Child of Idlewild
by Dylan Lee Arwood
Summary: chapter six is up finally. Rated K for some language, althought historically accurate it may be, could still be offensive to some readers. Enjoy
1. Have music when I will

"Have Music when I Will"

_I won't be my father's Jack_

_I won't be my father's Jill_

_I will be the fiddler's wife_

_And have music when I will_

_Here I am, little jumping Joan_

_When nobody's with me_

_I am always alone_

_-_ Mother Goose

Her name was Bertha Willis. For some, that may be enough; to know her name, is to know her. So have you spotted her with your minds eye? Amidst all the translucent creations of your wildest dreams, has a Bertha Willis been sculpted and chiseled from the glittery primordial goo of your imagination? Perhaps the goo is waiting patiently for the minds eye to portray some shadow of suggestion by which to base it's materialization of this young girl.

Here is another hint; Bertha is half Summerside Pringle and half Dartmouth Willis. Two very respectable families which are well branched across the Canadian Maritimes. Both are well-known and extremely well-to-do, not to mention terribly civilized and influential. The two remained untainted by any sort of outrageous scandal or eccentric characters Does this do anything for you?

Maybe it would be more helpful to hear that her father, Jackson Willis, a wealthy heir, owns more land than the average Boilingbroker and his three closest neighbors. Any ideas? Or maybe your goo would benefit from hearing that her mother, Florence, is the queen socialite of Boilingbroke and holds fast the admiration of all lesser social butterflies. Anything? Perhaps to know that her elder sister, Clarence is considered the belle of the sleepy surrounding area would aid you in your quest to become aquatinted with Bertha.

It could be that your goo demands to know about the love life of Miss Bertha before it will judge her and make up its mind as to how your mind will see her. This girl, along with William Ferguson will soon enough participate in a ceremony that involves her blushing as a vision in white, carrying gallantly a torch like bouquet of flaming roses in what the Willises and Fergusons both hope will be the most reproductively successful union of the two powerhouse families of Boilingbroke, Nova Scotia; in recent history.

Has the goo shaped a Bertha for your mind to see yet? I suppose not, for the same reasons why even those close to her did not see her truly, at least not in the microscopic way a reader searches for. These surnames which shaped the destiny and lifestyle of those who bore them in those times, the somewhat burdensome heirlooms of a murky and all but forgotten past bear no virtues as descriptors. Especially to those of us who live in a world that, for the most part, has gotten over the Victorian obsession that ties class to origin.

If you really wish to meet Bertha Willis then we must look beyond that thick curtain. For her heritage fails dismally at capturing the rapturous vivacity of her melodic laugh and girlish smile, or the clear pools of awe that were her sea like eyes, framed with long dark lashes. Not too mention that her name portrays nothing about her bubbly and contagious brightness which beamed from her handsome figure as if she were a beacon. Nor does it tell you about her lovable enthusiasm for language. As all the pupils of her teaching position at Boilingbroke High School will tell you, it is not her name that makes Miss Willis a pleasure to be literally and figuratively enlightened by, but the way she dances nimbly about the room, her honey blonde locks bouncing wildly as she rants and raves about the beauty of Shakespearean literature. And to think, all this sunshine was hidden under many dusty layers of Victorian foolishness.

It was, unfortunately the former description of Bertha Willis, not the latter out of the dark confines of his scholarhood, to darken the doorstep of Idlewood manor during their long and arduous courtship. One particular day, after the lopsided love of the couple had been announced to any who cared, Florence Willis' voice had a sickeningly sweet tone which carried down to where Bertha was dreaming, and shook her awake. Bertha had been experiencing the splendor of idle solitude in her reverie while running and romping quite freely and unladylike about the prim gardens of Idlewood.

"Although," Bertha said to herself wistfully, "Daylilies and violets can never be tamed of their wildness at the hands of mere garden shears, and flowers in their roguish beauty are certainly never be prim."

"Bertha Ann Willis!" Yelled her mother as loud as her prim voice range would allow, in a tone of assured urgency which belonged solely to the relieved mothers who have come to believe that they can finally breathe easy after finally marrying off their tomboy daughter. Her piercing charm cut through the air and echoed off the stone walls.

"And the water, even in the perfection of this fountain, is about as easily tamed as it is contained." Said Bertha calmly to the petunias while letting the gurgling water wash over her outstretched palm, ignoring doggedly the sweet call of her mother which had the distinct pitch which meant that William had come "a courtin'".

"And it's moods are hardly to be called civilized, yet it is lovely and haunting in all it's tempers. 'Nay, I am for all waters.'" She quoted, considering the raging sea on the horizon.

"Oh Bertha Ann! Do come here!" Called Florence once more, her voice in a crescendo of shrillness. Florence was an assertive and apparently independent woman, but she became desperate at the drop of a hat. Her weakness, was shared by the greater- if not better- part of society and was always close to the surface of her thin and translucent moralities.

"Coming mother." Said Bertha in an exasperated mock sweetness, she decided to face the inevitable rather than try and fight in vain against the will of parents. The monotonously dull day she was facing, the dry and predictable life which was being imposed upon her, the "seen and not heard" type children they would have, carbon copies of their father and bred for civility and the coldness of high society, followed by the foreseeable and unremarkable death she would come to, unsatisfied and unfulfilled.


	2. Let us Appoint the day

Let us appoint the day

"_Oh dearest Jenny Wren if you'll be but mine_

_You shall feed on cherry pie and drink but currant wine_

_I'll dress you like a goldfinch or any peacock gay_

_So dearest Jen, if you'll be mine, let us appoint the day_

_Jenny blushed behind her fan and thus declared her mind_

'_Cherry pie is very nice and so is currant wine_

_But I must wear my plain brown gown and never go too fine'"_

_-_Mother Goose

There was no love between William Ferguson and Bertha Willis; I do not believe there was even a taste of fondness between the pair. It was nothing more than a frigidly formal, mutual understanding that they would both enjoy the perks of each other's statuses and then pop out some children to please the grand folks.

Everyone was hyper-pleased with the arrangement, except of course spirited Bertha, not being the type to enjoy the company or lifestyle of the fortunate. As a rule, Bertha refused and was incapable of being dishonest with herself; she valued the trust that she and her consciousness shared and so missed out in the satisfaction and false happiness that her family got from buying their friends. Yet, being the type to get caught up in the romance of things, she resigned herself to a tragic, woeful life, of hollow eyed stifled misery, like a pathetic, wilted flower or a magnificent maiden, nursing the doomed lepers, wallowing in the heartbreaking pride of unrecognized self-sacrifice and the solemnity of sainthood.

Although Bertha found that perspective, skewed by embellishments of drama from her own imaginings a little compensation, beneath her pretending and dreams there was a realistic soul that had wants and needs and above all else, was aware of the sad truth. She resented the love that her sister Clarence was able to share or feign with her prize pony of a husband, Lothian Nicholson, and wanted nothing more than that happiness, however simple and unromantic it may be.

However, by some cruel fated twist, she had been denied that contentment and so felt every bit as courageous as Joan of Arc as she twirled her lacy parasol, walking arm in arm with her dashing yet dim-witted fiancé across the fairgrounds of theKingsport exhibition.

Although it was unfitting to commit an act of heroineism in any place as jolly as a fair, Bertha found she was quite able. They waltzed around to the horse pen where Bertha's foal Diamond and the mother, owned by Clarence were being exhibited. The organically clean earthy smell, mixed with the faint twang of manure hit their upturned noses at an abominable speed. She saw Williams nose twitch in disgust but Bertha felt like a newborn, breathing its first breath.

She looked into Diamond's bashful eyes and remembered with a twinge of bitterness the day they had broken her in. She had watched from her window the image, blurred by her tears, of her handsome midnight black horse being led around and around the pen, becoming less resistant and more dispirited at each lap. Finally, after an eternity of repetitive circuits, the glory and light and the very spark of creation had been extinguished from Diamonds eyes. She used to frolic and dance across the fields merrily, now she grazed apathetically, devoid of passion and spirit.

"What a dreadful stink. What a pity some spend their whole live in such filth. We will move on shall we?" William practically recited in dull tones, with a dim grin on his chiseled mug while his eyes danced upon the hired boys.

Bertha wrenched her arm away, perhaps more zealously than she had meant to and wondered with fervor how odd it was that each new foal had to be broken in, that such a crude beauty could be born from a spiritless and well groomed mother. Like horses made an attempt to renew the wild in its race with each creation, though the probability of the liveliness outlasting human afflict was practically non existent. Diamond was being led around so that all the wealthy children waiting patiently around the whitewashed fence could have a chance to pat his nose. Diamond looked again forlornly at Bertha, with her sweet eyes which had some fire behind them yet and funnily enough, Bertha recognized the submissive expression they bore.

"That is a fine horse yaw got here Miss Bertha." Said Oliver, the ragamuffin who was leading Diamond around the enclosure as he passed the pair of them by

"I daresay it is. Bred for perfection from Bolingbroke's finest. She'll make a fine catch for some stallion someday. Although this is hardly proper talk for ladies like Miss Bertha." William stated, looking at Oliver accusingly like muddy patch that had soiled his shoe. Bertha merely nodded politely.

"_So bring him; we have idle dreams:  
This look of quiet flatters thus  
Our home-bred fancies. O to us,  
The fools of habit, sweeter seems"_

A man's voice with a soft dreamlike quality floated over their heads and beamed the radiance of Tennyson into Bertha's soul. It was a strange voice and she was sure that she had never met the speaker before, and yet it was mysteriously and faintly familiar, from the misty realm where distant memories and dreams fade into obscurity. She whipped around her golden head and verses drifted airily from her mouth like they were not her own.

"_To rest beneath the clover sod,  
That takes the sunshine and the rains,  
Or where the kneeling hamlet drains  
The chalice of the grapes of God;"_

Her eyes came to rest upon eyes that were undoubtedly those of the speaker. Warm and brown with an indescribable yet undeniable depth that bored into the soul of a poet, who sees unseen and then, with a palette of black and white words, paints a multihued world of complex and simplistic splendor. His pale face had a masculine grace and poetry about it, despite its weather beaten look and numerous flecks of dirt through which golden freckles appeared like specks of sweet sunshine. And upon his elegant yet rugged crown grew a shining crop of carroty red curls that fell upon his forehead in a slapdash grace.

"You have no right to speak until spoken to you vagabond! Now be gone before I set the police after you for harassing this young lady." Commanded William in a quavering shrillness, obviously feeling his structured future threatened at the momentous arrival of this striking newcomer who Miss Bertha could not seem to stop blatantly gazing at. "Obviously in shock the poor girl" William comforted himself by thinking, though still not quite convinced,

"What does a hired boy know of Lord Tennyson's 'In Memoriam?" said Bertha breathlessly

"Hired boy by obligation, English teacher by choice. I am simply working for Mr. Jackson Willis this summer Miss, so that I may pay for my boarding come autumn and then I will be teaching at Bolingbroke High School" He retorted expressively while bowing deeply and extending a hand. He let out a bubbly and boyish, yet slightly hoarse laugh that thrilled Bertha to her toes.

"Then you are working for my father. It is nice to meet you Walter, my name is Bertha Willis." She took his calloused browned and work hardened hand in her delicately gloved fingers, "I am afrai-"

"Let's go Bertha _dearest_." Interjected William with unimaginable scorn and distaste, "We don't want to be late for dinner with the Gordons. Do excuse us, _Walt._"

Bertha looked at William with disgust, and then stifled her rising anger just in time to maintain primness and her nobility, remembering her resignation in the name of what she was not quite sure anymore, a ruddy haired lyrical and sensitive imp kept intruding on her thoughts. She wondered briefly whether William had called the man who was Walter, but could not be belittled by shortening his name to something as unromantic as _Walt, _Walt by accident, or whether he had developed the social perception to realize that this nickname would be a biting insult to this man of great un-walt-ishness dignity.

"Goodbye Walter!" Bertha yelled quickly over her shoulder as William steered her away at top speeds

"And you Miss Bertha," he cried, tilting his cap to her, "Farewell to you and your _dearest_ Bill"

Bertha giggled and William looked furious and explosive. She muffled her mirth with a cupped hand and walked on beside a man who was the least akin to a name as amiable as Bill.

She gave her mind some slack in the leash that it was now attached to and allowed it to wander. She reeled it in with a jolt however, when she realized that Walter Shirley was in fact her replacement. She was forced by law to stop teaching once she was wed. Ripped savagely from her true passion to go and live the life she dreaded. It was not altogether fair but what was to be done? She was a woman and it was her duty to do dutiful things in order to be dutiful to her husband who in return, provided her the assets and the lifestyle that allowed her to be dutiful. All Bertha had ever wanted as a girl was to wear pretty dresses and forget all about any education, and socialize and be dainty. But, when it came to it, she was clinging to her intellectual life and had developed a strong distaste for dresses and dainties.

On the ride home, she gazed longingly out the window at the poor children running around the countryside in sock feet and listened regretfully to their laughter and joyous screams. Bertha had lacked a childhood altogether and was tied into corsets at age two. This absence of a foundation made the walls weak and weary and always wanting. And then marriage would put a roof on her life, paving the road out, horribly flat and monotone before her. But then that security and peace of mind that came with an organized life was reassuring and steadfast.

Upon stomping into her room in frustration and seeing that her mother had laid out a silk white dress that Bertha was to wear to the wedding in July was a final blow. Overwhelmed and confused she cried stormily and savagely, creasing and ruining the dress beneath her in complete disregard. From the Idlewood stable there carried a distinct wild neigh from a horse and the sweet melody of a young man's whistling, but Bertha Ann heard nothing, her walls had crashed down upon her.


	3. Dear Clarence

Dear Clarence

_"Little Polly Finders_

_Sat among the cinders_

_Warming her pretty little toes_

_Her mother came and caught her_

_And whipped her little daughter_

_For spoiling her nice new clothes"_

_-_Mother Goose

* * *

June 8th 1864

Idlewood, Spencer Lane Bolingbroke, N.S.

Dear Clarence,

"I do hope this finds you well, happy and safely sitting in Aunt Dorothy's parlor or spare room. We all are missing you dreadfully. Mr. Nicholson is particularly distraught and has taken to haunting our doorstep daily, awaiting the return of his "fiancée". Is that term not altogether too high and mighty and startlingly grown-uppish? Not to mention, entirely too sophisticated for the likes of me. I am afraid that that I too will soon be stamped upon with this label, William is relentless. Although I do suppose you probably are thinking that I am an ungrateful wretch and he is better than I deserve, him being in himself, far too good for his own good. And goodness is not a natural aptitude of mine, as you well know and remind me of daily."

"Mother is as pleased as punch over this entire engagement affair. You should hear her talking on and on to her friends about the joys of having two devoutly reliable daughters. I do not know how they stand her, the airs she puts on about marrying off two daughters in the course of one year as if it were a competition. They talked about my dramatic reform from unladylike, romantic pagan into an eligible and marriageable bachelorette under Miss Christy's tireless nannying, for a whole afternoon; meanwhile there was me, feeling smaller and meeker than a mouse on the corner sofa. I still do not know that I am fully reformed, I do not feel in any way changed. I am still that raging wild thing chained to mother's pinky finger. I am simply more resigned to the fact that I am nothing without marriage, and my eccentric maidenhood would eventually tar and feather the family name. So, for the love of the Willis'! Goodness knows I cannot put up with this courting business much longer. Despite Williams extremely embarrassing attempts to be romatical, bless his soul, I refuse to be wooed. It is mother he has to worry about, and she is absolutely smitten. Yet, I still feel intuitively that I will let her down, yes I know you have no faith in my intuition, but a chapfallen grimace on mothers face is more than I can bear."

"And still, it was an arduous task to say goodbye to my students at the high school. They presented me with a bound copy of my favorite work of Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet; it's about a family feud and star crossed lovers... Sorry Clarence, I do realize that romantic prose has no effect on you. I don't mean to bore you, undoubtedly you have much to attend to with the wedding preparations (while we are on the subject, yes dearest reluctant confidant, I will be your bridesmaid) Needless to say, upon the presentation of the book, there was not a dry eye in the house. Oh how I love moldable minds, I truly believe that I have gotten through to them and that they will carry my teachings through their lives. Unfortunately, not all minds are putty in my hands, mother's is quite unmovable and set in stone. She would not hear of my performing the Queen Mab monologue for her guests. Instead I preformed it for the hired help, who proved to be an extremely appreciative audience. One new fellow, Walter Shirley (Incidentally my replacement as English teacher at the high school next fall. Oh, am I doomed to be haunted by the life I am leaving behind. Do the fates have no pity for the weary?) ,looked particularly moved by my performance. But, then he always has that dreamy look in his faraway gaze. Clarence, do not look so shocked. Nobody saw me associating with them. I can perfectly assure you that I have not further tarnished the family name inadvertently."

"But, back to business. As you know, mother has her hands full with our lovely and imposing visitor, Grandmother Willis. Her needs have quite ballooned so much as she sits upon her throne on wheels, that my paws are quite as filled unfortunately. She likes to go for walks constantly. Or rather, she likes to be taken for walks as I do all the walking and pushing. You may think she is a sensitive soul who shares my affinity for the great outdoors. But you would be wrong. I do really believe these walks have no other purpose than to indulge her in her greatest joy, nagging her poor granddaughter. She criticizes and antagonizes me to the bone! Saying things like, Bertha Ann, you are pushing too fast; Bertha Ann, why won't you be married and remove your burdensome presence from your poor little mother; Bertha Ann, your posture is horrendous; Bertha Ann, you are pushing too slow; Bertha Ann! Why, you aren't even listening to your grandmother! And then she adds a cough or two for effect. I simply reply "Yes grandmother WIlis." Or "No grandmother Wills." And then she proceeds to call me impertinent."

"I daresay I could go on, but I will not, I will spare you. You are probably mentally reprimanding me for not having any pity for this poor old widowed woman, named Anne no less. That cursed nobly homely name that is tagged along with Bertha, a perfectly respectable one. I sometimes wonder if mother added it just to spite me for not being that boy she wanted. Well, the cantankerous old bat is staying with us for good it seems, as she can do no wrong in her son and our father's eyes. The scariest thing about her is that she is my future. A withered and mean old lady with a bonnet to cap it all off. Dreamless, a burden on her relatives, unable to see past outward appearances and reputations because of years of love starved confinement. Oh woe is me. I try to avoid looking at her if I can, her eyes are too childlike and scared, like a work horse, afraid of declining health and impending death, which comes to everything whether rich or poor."

"But, enough, for now, it is time to get ready for the dance at Mount Holly. I wish you could join me Clarence; this is the last dance I will attend in my youth most likely, before marriage's leash takes hold. The party should prove to be awfully dull and respectable as always. I realize that this letter must have been awfully tiresome for you to read. But since you have read this far, if indeed you have, then let it be known that I appreciate your concern. I have only you to talk to, ever quietly judging but never lecturing Clarence, since mother scolded and then forbade me from keeping a private journal."

Affectionately yours,

_Bertha Ann Willis_

"p.s. My dear pony Diamond has taken ill, I fear the worst as do the hired boys. They assured me when father bought her that she was well bred and so had an excellent constitution. But it appears that it is not so. Please return soon, for I miss you."

* * *


	4. On a Satuday Twilight

On Saturday Night

"_On Saturday night_

_Shall be all my care_

_To powder my locks_

_And curl my hair_

_On Sunday morning_

_My love will come in"_

_-_Rhymes of Mother Goose

and Mirth and laughter radiated from the glowing house that sat indignantly atop the dewy, grassy knoll. The hour was the golden-purple of summer twilight. The timeless entrancing hour when the air is moist and sweet and all things inhuman divine cast away their shrouds and make themselves known, revealing the world's shimmery and mysterious majesty to all who choose to behold it's unearthly magic. It was the hour when things innocent and dimpled lay down their heads and their sugary dreams came alive to mist the eyes of the pitiable skeptical and agnostical and deceive the hearts of the romantic. Lovers called on their shining eyed maidens and the world weary found comfort in the soft, gentle caress of the tangy breeze. Yet even so, the privileged of Bolingbroke chose this supernatural hour to throw their parties and bask in all things earthly and fleeting.

Walter Shirley, however, chose this hour to sit with his worn out back against the vast trunk of a willow, whose graceful bows were swaying in time with the wind music. Around him stood a group of young robust men, their eyes dancing with the mischief that the sprites of twilight often evoked in childish spirits. But Walter did not see them; his eyes saw the splendor of the other realm. The dream world, where admission was more exclusive than the dances of high society, like the one currently occuring on the hill. But the sights were far too wonderful for description and any attempt would be lost on the unfortunate who have not been there themselves. Those who have, know of what I speak.

And explanation for the idleness of such young boys and men in the naive early summer of June, was in fact the exclusiveness of the certain party which was occurring at Mount Holly. The house was just visible enough to be unbearably tantalizing as it peered over the hill at them, in mockery of the stork lottery, in which they had all achieved mediocrity. They had not been invited to the costume ball. All but Walter, who was lost in thought, gazed in envious awe at the masked figures whirling about in the illuminated windows of a world one could not dream oneself into, one had to be born.

"Let's have some fun, boys," said Martin with a mischievous glint in his chocolate eye.

"Vat exactly did you 'ave in mind Marty?" asked François in gurgled accented English.

Their eyes drifted off again to the house upon the hill, the silver screen, whereas they were the audience. They all wanted to be in the movie. Sensing their intentions, Walter spoke, feeling it was his duty as their senior. The group jumped, as they had forgotten he was there.

"Are you honestly willing to sacrifice your jobs for one night of mischief? You know that they have the power to make your entire life a payment for what you might do. This is merely the babble of youth, drunk on fairy dust which floats thickly in the air on evenings such as this," he was slightly resentful of his rude awakening, and overcompensated with bitter logic.

"Oh my, oh my. College boy are we? So high and mighty yet we speak of foolishness like fairies," said a boy named Daniel tauntingly

"Do not try to understand, Daniel. You could not possibly. And if you risk the jobs of all these boys here I will be forced to tell your mother," rebutted Walter coldly and mightily. A sympathetic ooh was issued from the small crowd for Daniel's bruised ego.

"Don't pretend you are better than all of us just because you are older. Mother says dreaming is useless and people who do it are lazy cowards!"

"I am no better than you and I am no coward. Yet I would advise you not to go looking for trouble simply because you are lost in the deserts of tedium." Walter stated calmly, his passionate soul raging to escape. He suppressed it; he would be teaching some of these boys in the fall, he didn't want them to see his weaknesses.

"Not a coward? You won't even go swimming you ninny-

"SHUT YOUR MOUTH!" Walter yelled, rising quickly to his feet. His hands were trembling, he hated this anger, it was ugly and it pierced through the night, disturbing the beauty of the peace.

"Really Daniel, please stop it," tiny Oliver Hiddle said meekly, he perhaps alone knew the dangerous waters into which Daniel was treading.

"FINE! But he's a proud one he is. And what does he have to be proud of? He's a coward," spat Daniel with a little less confidence, he knew he has touched a sensitive nerve.

"Call me a coward for being logical. I suppose logic is the route of the man who takes no risks, yet in the end looses nobly, for without risks there is no gain" said Walter, the heat dissipating from his voice as he sunk back to the base of the willow tree.

"I didn't mean to make you mad Walt. But think of the fun we could have. It's just so hard to sit down here and watch them have all the fun." Dan said apologetically, yet still the boyish flame oftrouble-makinghad not been extinguished from his eye.

"Let's send someone up there. Like a Cinderella. They'll be disguised so no one will recognize them and then they can come back and tell us what it's like," suggested the young Ken Thomas eagerly

"Capital idea! We're just curious and that couldn't possibly hurt anyone. What do you say Walter? Is it logical enough for you college boy?" asked Dan

"Well I guess it would not hurt anyone. But I am playing no part," Walter answered in a resigned yet firm tone.

"But who to send as our Cinderella?" Martin demanded, his eyes on Walter

"Oh no, I could not possibly," protested Walter.

"You are the only one old enough to pull it off!" cried Dan

"Plus, nobody around 'ere knows you yet, you von't be recognized," gurgled François with a tone of dramatic desperation that appealed to Walter.

"Bertha will be there." Oliver said cheekily, he was indeed a very perceptive little urchin andlet us just say he came across a certain sheaf of poems tucked haphazardly under Walter's bunk.

Walter's colour deepened. He praised the lady of the night who hid the sole irrepressible emotion with her veil of intensifying darkness.

"And all you want is a recount of what the upper class consider fun?" said Walter slowly

"Yes. Of course I figured you'd be too sissy," teased Dan, knowing he hadpower now.

Walter stood tall and proud, straightening his collar.

"Alright boys... Have it your way. First find me something to wear and then I will show you, Walter Shirley is no sissy. I may write poetry and dream but I feel that makes me all the stronger. The ability to actually dare to dream and throw open the doors of consciousness, exposing yourself to all sorts of dangers and overwhelming possibilities and yet, great beauty,"

"Yes, well... Mr. Shirley, I think we should get going if you want to arrive in time for the refreshments," said Dan Wallace awkwardly.

"Right, hem hem," answered Walter.

And so, one half of a hurried hour later, a festooned Walter Shirley wasrushing up the hill towards Mount Holly which was now oozing out joy and delightful music from it's seams. Not too far away, at a balcony on the westward wall stood a maiden, slumped with shadowy hopelessness over the intricate railing. Neither had either on their mind, but little did they know of their destiny. It was written in the stars that watched over them both in their despair and anxiousness.

"_A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life"_


	5. The Way the Noise Began

"And That is the Way the Noise Begun"

_My little old man and I fell out;_

_I'll tell you what 'twas all about,--_

_I had money and he had none,_

_And that's the way the noise begun,_

_-_Rhymes of Mother Goose

Walter stepped lightly around the pond, a silver dimple on the earths green cheek, and headed towards the glowing Mount Holly. He stole dubious glances periodically to the group of boys who were sniggering from behind the ancient willow. He adjusted his mask and made for the ominous stone entrance, upon which were cast flickering shadows from lavishly hung fairy lights. A sigh of resignation and underlying excitement escaped his lips and he clicked his heels for his admirers' enjoyment.

He climbed with difficulty through the groomed bushes and was preparing to stumble into the light from the shadows, when he saw a figure highlighted by the moonshine's blush. A golden halo surrounded her unearthly radiant face and her heavy lids were cast downwards at her shining masses of lacy, sleek and ruffled garb. It was not the first time her had seen Bertha Willis, in his dreams or elsewhere. But he had never seen her in this light, so alone, fragile and miserable. Her mouth was small and buttoned in her delicate face which rested on one gloved hand. Her eyes were dark and desolate like those of a caged animal, seeing nothing of their surroundings.

Walter made to leave unnoticed, but clumsily fumbled and tripped over a root in spite of himself. He straightened up, crimson beneath his mask.

"Who goes there?" cried Bertha, sounding shocked and fearful

"Only me, I am so sorry Miss Bertha. I did not mean to intrude" Walter stuttered breathlessly, his eyes searching wildly for an escape lest she call someone to chase him off the property

"Oh Walter Shirley! Are _you_ going to the party?" she asked, brightening like a lamp

"I-I...How did you know it was me?" he removed his mask slowly and held it with both hands. Once he had, wished with all his heart that he had left it on.

"I recognized your voice, I suppose. You weren't planning to sneak in were you?" she demanded in mock severity, a smile dancing on her lips

"Well I was dared you see." Walter stared at the ground and kicked the dirt like a guilty child

"I see," she took a serious tone, understanding that pride was at stake. Walter admired her for understanding. It seemed the upper class type rarely understood or attempted to understand the childish social games people played and their motives for playing them. Which struck Walter as odd because they played them too, and took them more seriously than anyone. But Bertha understood. She was different.

"Oh what fun," she continued, "Perhaps I can be of assistance?"

"No, pardon me Miss Bertha but I don't want be of any trouble. I'll be going now."

"Nonsense! Please do let me help. I am intolerably bored. And desist with the Miss, simply Bertha will do. It makes me feel old and pitiable."

"Excuse me Miss Bertha, but it wouldn't be proper"

"Why ever not?"

She was mocking him, Walter realized. A bruised pride complex bubbled over in anger then it evaporated as her laughter rang clear like water music.

"Well, I don't really know. I feel a vagabond like me ought to address a young lady with respect."

"Vagabond? Our lives are not so different Walter. I refuse to pretend to be better than you or any other person." she sounded a little wistful.

"Not different? You were raised by doves and I was raised by crows, we are practically a different species our lives are so dissimilar. Don't pretend you don't know that." His passionate soul got the better of him and showed itself without bidding, it always did.

"Either way, raised by dove or crow, we are still human. A wolf raised by rabbits is still a wolf is it not? And a human raised by humans is still a human Walter. I've an idea! I will show you my world tonight and you will see for yourself. It may hide all the ugliness but that does not mean it is not present. Doves still eat crops greedily and crows still fly freely and gracefully. Birds is birds"

"You'd prefer that all the cruelty be on the surface, for it to scar and maim the spirits of innocents?" Walters's voice went dark and his lips blanched. The treacherous noise of tossing seas and piercing torrential rains filled his ears. He heard his mother's distant cries, and his father calling his name though they sounded faded and worlds away. Walter looked away and shook his head violently.

Bertha looked wide eyed and apprehensive. She spoke slowly.

"No, all I am saying is that part of its ugliness comes from the fear and embarrassment that grows as something is hidden. Is anything wrong Walter?"

"No, nothing, I just had a bug in my eye." Walter's eyes were fixed on the ground

"Okay... Will you please come to the party with me? I don't believe I can bear much more of this" Her eyes were wild and desperate

"Alright I'll go. You won't get in trouble if I get caught?"

"See if I care if I do." Bertha looked reckless and dangerous. Walter was a little frightened. He knew that she would care if she got in trouble. He had heard the stories. They were more believable than ever as she stood there before him, pacing the balcony, an unearthly light glowing from behind her setting her features on fire and an unholy light glinting in her eye. Artemis, the Greek goddess of divine femininity, mischief and war stood before him.

"Why are you doing this?" normally Walter Blythe was not one for bluntness but his curiosity prevailed. Had she gone insane?

"Because I _like_ you Walter," she looked in his eyes for perhaps the first time that night and Walter wondered if he had imagined the italics, I don't believe that he did, "You know what's right and what's left and I truly believe that you understand the beauty in things. You _know..._ Plus, I was thinking maybe you could show me what your life is like." She had the air of one expressing a long fermented dream.

"What do you mean?"

"Oh you know, show me how the other half lives. What you do for fun, your favorite meals and haunts and I have always wanted to learn how to boat, but I've never been allowed. Maybe you could teach me how to boat Walter."

"NO! ...No, I-I couldn't possibly." The violent waves rushed through his ears again; he remembered his sister's wide eyes as she clung to his arm, the screaming crowds, the panic stricken look on the captain's face; everyone cornered by a certain death...

"Erm, okay then, perhaps something else. But meanwhile, I have to do my part. Put on your mask and sneak around to the front. I will meet you there, my mask is blue velvet. Okay Walter?" She looked concerned and curious again. Walter realized that his outburst must have been a little shocking. If she only knew, she would understand...but now was not the time for explanations. He agreed to her plan and he listened to his voice as if it were not his own and ran off into the night blessing the stars above.


	6. Let it lay

Let it Lay

See a pin and pick it up,

All the day you'll have good luck.

See a pin and let it lay,

Bad luck you'll have all the day.

-rhymes of mother goose

* * *

Walter stood around waiting for Bertha; he could not remember ever feeling so out of place. Couples stood around and chatted and he wondered what they could possibly have to say. He edged closer to the stone wall attempted to look inconspicuous which consisted of him furrowing his brow and squinting his eyes a little. Needless to say, after a few minutes his mind was elsewhere, daring to consider for the first time in a few weeks, the series of events that had led him thus far in a pruned garden among strangers, far far away from home.

* * *

He considered the monumentality of his first step off the ship. The last time his feet had touched solid, static ground was in Ireland and in one stride he had stepped across unfathomable waters, onto a new and strange continent and into an unknown and uncertain existence.

The air tasted faintly like home. Perhaps he would not have had the courage to take that earth-shattering step if there had not been an Irish tang to the air in this _Halifax. _He might have stayed there suspended in time forever more and then none of this would have ever happened. But he took comfort in that air, he savored it. It was all he had.

A woman who was missing a few teeth shoved him from behind and he stumbled out into the sunlit breeze. As he did, a world blossomed below him in the harbor. Nameless people crisscrossing paths as they went on their way, fishermen tossing their loot onto the docks and the fires of industry and diligence burning bright off into the distance in red bricked factories and blinding tin roofed houses which lined up in ranks into oblivion. And white winged gulls cried their mournful cry as they swooped through the masts of ships and the clouds in the endless skies.

His knees almost gave way as he walked down the ramp, feeling like an infant toddling about on wary legs. He gripped the rope railing tightly, ignoring the tossing of his stomach and letting the sight of safe, steady, land sink through him.

He wandered, staggering with the general motion of the crowd streaming from the lower decks of the Catalonia. Person by person they peeled off to meet relatives or to go about whatever business they had, until he was left alone in a sea of strangers. Utterly lost, but there was nobody to find him, he knew not a soul in the world save back in Limerick and he could not go back, not now. He was beginning to realize just how big the world was and just how insignificant and speck like he was among these giants.

Faltering onward, too weary to defy the current of people, he felt broken and beyond repair. He had never been without a home before, an anchorless ship, a drifter. He felt a sudden urge to do something drastic, to make sure he was still alive and breathing. There was something too eerie and dreamlike about the way the people floated on, unknowing of the tragedy that had befallen him, oblivious to his heartbreak. Perhaps he had drowned with the others. Maybe this was limbo. He certainly did not feel alive anymore, he felt intangible and shadowy and inconsequential. Numbness encompassed him like a shell and blocked out his senses. It seeped through him and froze a pain before he could feel it searing. Pain was sufferable, it's absence was unbearable.

A young boy in coveralls ran straight into his torso and then stumbled backwards. He reached his hand down absently to help the lad up, and the boy took it, shifting a loaf of bread to his other arm.

"Help! Thief!" a stout, bearded merchant cried out huskily from the door of his harbor front bakery.

The boy glanced up quickly and then shot off. He stuck out his arm to stop the urchin, instinctively. The boy's eyes widened, he could not have been more than twelve years old. He looked at the boy's face, it was scrawny and grimy and the boy's eyes looked at him in desperate plea. He took his arm away and let the boy go, he grinned at him hurriedly before weaving his way through the crowds towards the North end.

"What do you think you're doing!" roared the merchant, his arms flailing wildly.

His stomach sank as several heads turned towards him. He was alive after all, and it was no relief. He pulled his cap low over his eyes, turned on his heel and began taking steady, unsuspicious strides in the other direction, latching on to a convoy of locals attempting to lose himself once more. All the while he kept his eyes on the worn wooden planks that flew by beneath his worn rawhide shoes.

A whistle sounded sharply and feet pounded on the dock behind him. He glanced over his shoulder hastily and meeting the furrowed eyes of a policeman who had his finger pointing at him, he willed his legs to run. He dodged around a lady and her husband and made his knees pump faster carrying him away to nowhere. They complained, they'd only just remembered how it was to walk and now they were flying across Halifax harbor, making the sails of the docked boats blur into whiteness beneath the same old blue sky, above the steely navy waves of the Atlantic.

He heard yells and more shots of shrill whistle whirled off, piercing the daylight, but he did not look back and nobody stopped him. He tasted his parched mouth and felt his breathing become unsteady as he gasped for air. But he did not look back and he did not stop and uncharacteristically did not stop to think. All he knew was that he must not be caught. His legs flew faster as he made his way along the waterfront.

He ducked into a hidden alleyway and with his back against the wall he sunk to the ground, his chest heaving as he wheezed and panted. Then his eyes widened in fear, he'd ran in on something. There were people, men, in the alley having some sort of an argument. One had the other by the scruff of the neck, holding him against the stone wall of a building. The man held against the wall was quite well dressed with a gold pocket watch hanging from his belt and a waxed moustache twitching as his bloodshot eyes wild and wide. The other man, who was yelling furiously at the man on the wall, appeared to be a seaman with a full red beard and a face with ruddy blotchy stains on the cheeks.

He buttoned his eyes tightly and tucked his white knuckled fists in his ears to block out the scene. Depending, for the first time in many years on that old childish philosophy that if you cannot see them, they will never find you; desperate times called for desperate measures. But the yells seeped past and his brain began to process them inadvertently as he bowed his head and leaned against an old barrel.

"You filthy stinking scoundrel! Yer nothin' but a bloody old profiteer Willis! There were children on that boat! Women and their babies! Not that they can speak for themselves now can they? You have seen to that haven't you Willis? HAVEN'T YOU?" roared the man in slurred shaking syllables

He bowed his head further down and clamped it between his knees. This was not something he wanted to hear.

The man against the wall was trembling and wouldn't look the seaman in his eyes, he cowed away and seemed to shrink in stature against the brick.

"Now see here Seamus! There were powerful people on that boat. Rich and powerful people. They threatened to blackmail the company if the ships weren't segregated! I told you that already!" he made a dismal attempt at sounding brave and indifferent

"Yeah well look what we got 'ere on our hands now! It's a right sight worse than blackmail would 'ave been. This is no mere scandal Willis. It's a bloody tragedy! What a mess, what an 'orrible mess! They'll take my job and it's all I got! Things won't be looking so good for you either Willis! There will be families who will be wanting compensation for their loss you bet your belt! And all hands point to you as the blame for those deaths! You know they do! They'll put you right in the pokey and it's no more than you deserve!" He released his grasp slightly on the man's collar his voice getting a little quieter and raspier.

"They made me an offer I could not refuse! How was I supposed to know the ship was going to sink! They said the Hope was unsinkable Seamus! Mr. Gray wanted them all taken off so his new bride could see the view. I didn't have to leave any lifeboats on! But I did!.. Rich and powerful people on that ship! It's them that's paying your salary! Don't forget." And with that he tore himself from the seaman's grasp and straightened his tie.

Walter began humming to himself in the quietest whisper. He could feel himself gradually regressing to the early stages of childhood. All he had been slipping away. Pretending that the men were not talking about what he thought they were talking about, pretending that he was at home on his grandfather's knee, listening to fairy tales or playing with his wagon or running with the horses; anywhere but here and now in this moment in time.

"Where do you think you're going? We're in this together! You got us into this mess so you're going to get us out ye bloody coward!" bellowed the man called Seamus, his voice growing a little shaky.

"There seems to be something else you forgot," Willis said smugly, eyeing two dark shapes emerging from the shadows behind them, "I am the most influential man in Halifax, and what are you?" he spat on Seamus' shoes, "A 'poor simple sailor'... Ha!"

The dark shapes turned into two burly men, who grabbed Seamus roughly under the arms and restrained him as he flailed his arms in rage and kicked out violently with his legs.

"You–are-never–going-to-get-away with this you bastard!" he said, dodging the hands of the two men who were trying to gag him, sounding more and more hysterical.

Willis reached out and jabbed Seamus sharply in the ribs with his gloved hand. Seamus bent over in pain.

"Oh won't I? You don't say? Again you have overlooked the fact that I am not tied to this Hope ship as you are. As a mere benefactor it will be only too easy for me to put the blame on the captain, or the first mate, or the warden..."

"They're dead! They're all dead! You're rotten to the core you devil! You'll go to hell. You'll burn in hell you son of a bitch! You filth-"his cries ended suddenly as one of the men clamped a hand over his lips. He was still struggling vainly and he sounded like he was underwater.

Walter began mouthing soft songs that he did not know the names of, to himself.

"Tut, tut blasphemy Seamus, we can't have that can we boys? No. I am afraid it's my word against yours. You know what to do McCrae, Gordon..." he said calmly nodding to the two men as Seamus' face blanched. He continued with a tone of dark finality, "Make sure he stays quiet."

With that, the two men dragged a thrashing Seamus into the shadows. Willis pivoted on his heels and reached for a pocket watch, looked at it and then tucked it away again. Walter hugged his knees to his chest and waited for the man to leave him alone.

It was funny how his body and his heart were never on the same page. When his heart wanted to fly and then his body wasn't up for it. That sometimes his body could be so hungry when his heart was so full. Right then his body wanted to up and run but he did not have the heart.

"Hey sonny?" said the voice of Willis nervously. Walter felt a presence step over him. He decided to ignore it.

"Get up son. There's a good lad. How long have you been there boy?" the voice of Willis flooded with fear, though he maintained a calm.

"No." said Walter simply and stubbornly, remaining in the fetal position.

"Fr-fresh off the boat are you? You don't sound like an American." The voice spoke slowly, seemingly choosing his words carefully.

"I'm from Dublin." Walter said quietly looking up finally and meeting the two wide eyes, one of which was twitching rhythmically, of who could only be Willis.

"Oh there you are! Would you mind telling me what you were doing down there? You weren't listening to my conversation were you son? Because you know here in Nova Scotia eavesdropping is not proper." He spoke very quicky and stole fleeting glances towards the opening of the alleyway.

"I didn't hear anything sir."

Willis eyed him suspiciously.

"No, of course you didn't. "he extended his hand daintily and when Walter took it, he pulled him to his feet forcefully, "I am Jackson Willis of Boilingbrooke, Nova Scotia. What's your name son?" he asked in a cold grey tone.

"Walter Shirley sir... of nowhere in particular at the moment I suppose."

Jackson Willis of Boilingbrooke was standing about two inches from Walters face. Walter could smell whiskey on his breath and though he was about a head taller than him, there was something menacing and about the man that made Walter uneasy.

"Pleasure to make your acquaintance boy. Now if you'll tell me please how you came to be there beside that barrel?"

Walter took a sharp breath and it made a rattle sound in his throat.

"Well sir my family and I wanted a new start after the potato-"

"What ship did you say you came over on?"

A little annoyed Walter spoke again, trying to spit as much as possible so as to get the man to back up a little.

"I don't believe I did but-"

"You alone boy?"

"Yes."

Wills' eyes flashed dangerously

"You're not meeting anyone?"

"No sir."

"No one is expecting you?"

"No sir. " Walter took his hands out of his pockets and crossed them over his chest, trying to look brave.

"Do you have a job son?" Willis said sharply

"No, I only just-"

Willis looked him over from head to toe out of the corner of his eye. A scheming smile spread from his eyes to his lips.

"You ever done work before?"

"Well I taught a little after school and then I had to go to the mines with my brothers..."

"I _mean _farm work. Have you ever worked on a farm?"

"Only the family farm sir."

"Excellent!... I'll make you an offer boy. A good home and free meals in exchange for some light work on my land. What do you say?"

"I don't quite know-"

"Nonsense, nonsense. It's just several hours away down the coast. We will be there in no time. You can start a new life for yourself and just forget about anything you may or may not have heard here today, it's of little importance. I may even be able to get you a job teaching at our high school. Would you like that. I know some people..."

Then with his arm around Walter's shoulder he led him from the alley, Walter did not look back. There was a horse and buggy waiting for them outside with a chauffeur sitting primly with the reins in his hands. He motioned for Walter to climb the stairs into the carriage ahead of him. Walter moved slowly, awed and incredulous.

They drove along the coast on a winding road that showed Walter his first glimpses of his new home. He watched the sun journey across the sky and kept his back turned towards the sea. Mr. Willis spoke of almost everything without really speaking of anything, oblivious or indifferent to the fact that Walter was not taking in a word. He let everything that had happened to him in the past few days come rushing in at once, it turned all his senses foggy and sluggish. He let them all go and immediately felt better. They floated up into the sky and he watched them go. He _would_ start all over, fresh and blank slated as a new born and everything would be fine.

The sun approached the horizon as they entered Boilingbrook. It burst across the sky in orange and pink splendor and then set diamonds shimmering on the waters. The sky went a deep purple and the air became salty sweet. They rounded a corner and struggled up a steep hill when a lush grassy knoll rose beside them and Walter caught his breath.

A young woman stood there watching the sunset. Her eyes aglow and her hair aflame as it blew in the wind. Her skin was milky from her high brow to her bare feet and her purply gown billowed around her. She laughed and twirled lightly before skipping down the other side of the hill and out of sight. Walter shut his eyes tightly and opened them again, she was so vivid... but he convinced himself that he had imagined her for Mr. Willis said nothing. And then...

"Bertha! Get back in the house young lady! If your mother saw you!" Jackson Willis had stuck his head out the window, and then he ducked back in shaking his head, "Do not mind her, my daughter. We have another one..." and then he muttered something inaudible that sounded like "Instanity does_ not _run in the family" or maybe "she was dropped on her head as a baby"

Walter smiled to himself and gazed back out the window.

* * *

A delicate hand wrapped itself around Walter's jaw and another grabbed his hand. Together they pulled him into the present. 


End file.
